Who?
by idioticonion
Summary: At the Lusty Leopard, Jasmine notes the return of an old customer. Spoilers for 5.02 Double Date. Warning - explicit male/female smut


**Who?**

There's a good crowd in tonight, she thinks, as the disembodied voice announces her. The name, Jasmine, is as good as any for a stripper. Jasmine - night blooming - like her, like any one of the poor saps who wait outside, desperate to throw money at her feet, tuck it in her panties, down her bra. All those guys can look and look but never touch her.

As she walks out on to the stage with a confident swagger in thigh-high boots and a pinched-in corset and she doesn't spot him at first because the lights dazzle her. In fact, she's bent around the pole, twirling nimbly, when she sees him. Just another guy in a nice suit, but he hasn't set foot in the club in two months, despite being a regular here before. Well, he hasn't set foot in the club during any night when she's been working, and if she didn't know better, she'd think that he was avoiding her. He lounges back in his chair. He's in the front row, yes, but not leaning forward and drooling like the rest of them. The guy in the nice suit pulls a roll of notes from his pocket and meets her eye and it's as though he's the eye of the storm, the one calm spot in the maelstrom of baying testosterone.

He's holding a lot of money and he meets her eye. She nods imperceptibly and continues her routine. It should put her off, should unbalance her. She's not that kind of showgirl - look, but don't touch - maybe a bump but no grind. But the hunger in this one's eyes won't be sated by anything as simple as a dry hump.

It should put her off - the hot, predatory glances he shoots her, the way he counts out a stack of bills from one hand to the other. She shakes out her wig and pops the clasp of her bra, letting her breasts fall free.

Look, but don't touch. Bump but don't grind. She's losing the thread of her thoughts under his piercing, needle-point gaze.

After, when she stops off at her dressing room, she's wet from her core - she's so turned on - she's horny as all damn hell. More so even than usual and he knows it, of course. She made sure her panties landed on his lap.

Five minutes later she slips into the champagne room. This time she's wearing a leather bra and crotch-less thong, garter belt and fishnets. And stilettos of course, although she's discarded the wig; it's just too hot in this enclosed space. Somehow, she thinks he won't mind.

He's just sitting there, waiting. He doesn't say anything when she removes his tie, draping it lightly over his eyes and ties it at the back of his head. He doesn't say anything when her nimble fingers unbutton his shirt. He lets out the merest whisper of a gasp when her scarlet-polished nails scratch over the bulge in his pants, tugging down his fly.

He groans when she rolls on the condom. He's neat and tidy, his pubic hair is dark blonde, trimmed back very short. He smells good - freshly laundered clothes, expensive cologne. He's a man made of money.

But he's still a man. She holds his dick while she sinks down on top of him, inch by inch, then she rips the tie away from his eyes. She feels him; that's a good, thick, sturdy piece of meat he's got between his legs. She knows somehow that each man is different, quirky even. He feels different, this feels illicit, she knows there are cameras in here and she could lose her job. But she figures that the cut the house is going to take from this guy, this man made of money, they'd be stupid to fire her.

He thrusts up into her, hard, impaling her on him. Then he starts to move inside her and he meets her eye. His lips, his pretty lips, they part as if caught in an invisible kiss.

He meets her eye and he thrusts up into her, hard.

Inside her body it's liquid metal, velvet steel, like a furnace, molten, she's already so wet that she can take every brutal bounce, every jolt, even when he grips her hips and holds her there so that it feels like he'll rip right through her.

It's painful - it's fucking painful - but it's a good pain, like that Madonna song - like a virgin. She's no virgin, but it hurts when he fucks her. It hurts like the first time.

It's a surprise when she comes - she doesn't even have to fake it. It's even more of a surprise when he squeezes her breast and ejaculates inside her, their bodies in perfect synch.

She pulls away right after, snapping off the condom, and even though she pulses with aftershock, even though her legs are like jelly, she stands up tall.

He doesn't say anything when she pulls away. He tucks his wilting dick neatly back in his pants and hands her a wad of bills - the sheer amount of money he's giving her almost makes her choke. But she reminds herself what this is all about and she straightens up. She reminds herself why she's doing this and she throws back her shoulders. She reminds herself and her bottom lip wobbles just a tiny bit.

Not this. It isn't about this. It isn't about going back into the champagne room and fucking some guy in a suit.

For money. Dirty money.

Not matter how good the suit, how nice he smells, how hard he fucks, how much he pays.

She grabs the cash and turns and walks away, as calmly as she can, but as soon as she's out of sight, she flees backstage into the shared dressing room.

"Hey Jasmine, you okay?" One of the dancers asks her.

She's tearing up. It isn't about this. He met her eye and she wonders if he knows who she really is.

"Oh Barney," she says, wiping her eyes and stuffing the bills into her purse - the one that Marshall bought her as a present for going cold turkey, for telling him she'd beaten it.

Inside is the scarf she bought yesterday that cost eight-hundred bucks, bought with the money she earned at the weekend doing an hour's set at the Lusty Leopard.

This place. This place has seeped into her skin. What started out as a harmless thrill has escalated until she's lost all sense of self-worth, all sense of proportion. Until she's all caught up in an erotic web, unable to break free. Until she's having sex with Barney.

Never again, she promises herself. She'll give up being Jasmine - Go back to being daylight Lily, Marshall's wife. That's the only way she'll ever be able to look Robin in the eye again.

She'll never be Jasmine again. Then this never will have happened.

But as Lily wraps the scarf around neck she can't help thinking that there was an adorable jacket that would go perfectly-

No. Never again.

Okay, maybe just the once.


End file.
